


I've been trying hard to reach you, cause I don't know what to do

by gipsiusy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mourning, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pining, Slice of Life, Unrequited Love, but not really, false assumption, he knows stuff, he recognize an heartbreak when he sees one, you know those two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 12:50:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gipsiusy/pseuds/gipsiusy
Summary: Mycroft is used to be aware of everything, especially regarding his only sibling.Since Doctor Watson became a crucial part of Sherlock's life, minding John was another of his task.But there are things he can't see, he can't control, and that's what, ultimately, will hurt them the most.Sometimes, though, being hurt it's okay if it's from the right person.





	I've been trying hard to reach you, cause I don't know what to do

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, so forgive me for any mistake. If, instead, there aren't any, the credit goes all to my wonderful Ambros, who betaed this.

_Mm, pop into Baker Street and - who knows? - Jump out of a cake._

_Baker Street? He isn't there anymore. Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life._

 

Mycroft honestly believes he knows everything. He must, given his line of work.  
But there are actually a few things he wasn’t aware of at all.  
  
He doesn’t know why John moved out of Baker Street, for example.  
He assumed that it was simply convenient for him, but never bothered to ask the exact reason. So, he has no idea what it meant for John to come back, within those walls, to sit on that chair and think, realize, that Sherlock was gone.  
Every time John found himself staring at an empty room, where nothing had been touched since that day, nor a person had entered in. John neither. He couldn’t. Looking through Sherlock's things felt so wrong that he just couldn’t. The only thing he purposely grabbed was, once, his violin, left as always in a random place around the house, which nearly tripped him. He took the violin, murmuring something under his breath, and stared at it.  
That was the first natural thing happened since that day. The first time he hadn’t felt forced to do anything, like eat or sleep or talk to people who were worried for him. Why so worried, he wasn’t the one splattered on the sidewalk.  
After that, he soon realized he could not live in that place anymore. It had never been a flat for one, even if Sherlock could have afforded it. It was always meant for the two of them.  
So, he grabbed all the money he was saving for some reason he couldn’t remember at the time, and bought a house, an actual house outside the chaos of London. He opened a studio and learned to be again, and in some way, it almost felt true.  
But of course, how could Mycroft know about any of this?  
  
  
Another thing that, damn his life, Mycroft will never know is how Sherlock survived two years. Yes, Mycroft put people to look over him, but Sherlock had to do everything by himself.  
And the worst part wasn’t the struggles. Actually, except for the Serbian Incident, the fighting and the wounds weren’t a habit.  
No, the worst part was waiting. He needed to put himself together, force himself not to do anything stupid just to make it quicker. He had to stay put and watch things evolve until he could jump at the right moment and _checkmate._  
The only thing that kept him sane was John's voice inside his head. It had already happened, to hear him when he wasn’t actually there, sporadic moments in someone else's life, but in that two years his words became a constant companion. They reminded him to eat, sleep, and even to wash himself when he got the chance.  
  
What Mycroft absolutely will never know is that Sherlock whispered back.  
  
Initially there were smart answers, as he used to do at home.  
But there, he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. His comeback was worth nothing.  
So, he started to actually speak to him.  
He couldn’t fool that John, so might as well use him. And he did. He explained him his plans, his possible ways out, the number of things that could have gone wrong.  
He promised, when the nights were dark and he was tired and alone, he promised and promised to come back home soon.  
He hoped that the voice would stop talking once at home, he thought that was just a stress reflex. John was the representation of being home, safe, in control.  
But he was home, alone, in control, and John's voice kept talking to him even if the real one didn’t even allow him to go in his new house.  
Maybe it wasn’t Baker Street he missed the most, or his coat.  
But dear lord may he be returning in that hellhole if Mycroft would hear a word of it.  
  
  
About that thing, Mycroft could actually know.  
John wasn’t actually planning on telling him, but it is what it is.  
John kept all of Sherlock's stuff. Everything, even the littlest, stupid thing like a paper with two words scribbled on in an illegible calligraphy. And, of course, he kept that awful piece where Sherlock described in detail why all John’s friends hated him. He never read it, because of reasons, but put that with all his stuff in the attic.  
He took every box from Baker Street. There was stuff he could have handed to a school, or just tossed them away, but for some idiotic reason he just couldn’t.  
It was like asking himself to cut off a finger. He tried, and tried hard, but every time he ended up alone in his chair, with a glass of scotch in his hand and many regrets in his eyes.  
Things he should have said, things he should have done. Everything was wasted.  
Then Mary came along in his life, and things seemed less tedious, a little bit lighter.  
He didn’t manage to throw Sherlock in the trash, but at least he stopped going upstairs to look at that stuff like there was some secret answer in that junk that could save him, that could bring him back.  
After discovering that Sherlock was, actually, alive, those boxes became a burden, and so he asked Mycroft to kindly bring them back to their owner.  
He was ready to use his rage –justified, nobody could tell him otherwise- against him, since he knew and hadn't told him, but it ended up being unnecessary. One day, coming back from work, he found the attic empty and everything was fine.  
Except for the burden on his heart, that maybe became a little heavier.  
  
  
If Mycroft ever deduced it, he never mentioned it.  
But now that Sherlock was back, one of his purposes was to make John Watson happy.  
And if that meant sharing him with someone, someone good enough to keep up with them, so be it.  
And Sherlock would never mention how lonely he felt when they went to their house.  
And he would never allow himself to be resentful about it, because he'd taken something from John, and his best behaviour for the rest of their life was the least he could do to make up for it.  
What harm could it do, to sometimes wander the city alone, looking for something in all the wrong places?  
There was no problem in organizing a wedding, and smiling at people, and being friendly with Mary. He liked Mary, she was an excellent choice as a wife.  
Until she wasn’t anymore.  
And he should have seen it. Again and again, he’s useless when it comes to protect the people he cares about.  
Now John had a broken heart and he was full of a rage ready to be aimed at anyone. He was staying at Baker Street for a while, until the waters calmed down, until Sherlock found a way to fix it.  
And he swore to himself he would fix it.  
Caring may not be an advantage, brother mine, but it’s not our choice to make.  
  
It was weird at the beginning, until it wasn't.  
Alone in that apartment, two men with too many scars under their skin stare at each other.  
There was no studying, no pressure, no embarrassment.  
Just peacefulness. Feeling of home. Of stability.  
It was not what John should feel. Sherlock's just gotten back from the hospital, after his w—Mary shot him.  
He should feel enraged, pissed off to say the least, and he did, until a moment ago.  
But as soon as he laid his eyes on Sherlock, and he stared at him, he discovered he could not. Not with him at least—so busy with making him forget his abominable wife. As if he'd been the one to shoot, and not the one to be shot.  
_I could have lost you one more time. For real_. He thinks, like a death sentence. Well, it would have been for him.  
Losing Sherlock all over again would mean the death of anything resembling John Watson.  
It’s not like John Watson existed without him, not the real, alive, human being.  
Something in the back of his head was telling him to do something about that, but it had been a full, tough week in an even tougher life, so he just shut his eyes and rested on his chair.  
For the first time in maybe two years he slept without nightmares.  
Sherlock watched him fall and be peacefully asleep without a sound. He should have told him to go in his room. Dear, he should have gone get some rest, too. He just couldn't.  
Not only the idea of moving from the couch seemed honestly horrendous, but it was extremely useless.  
There was a moment, that night, he could not actually recollect. Like grasping at smoke, only in his memory. But he was laying on the couch and John was on his chair, but he wouldn’t have felt closer to him than in any other moment. Space was a relative dimension, in that case.  
He would like to examine that feeling closely, but something in his mind was telling him that it would be pointless. It’s not about the laws of physic, it’s not something that can be controlled.  
He fell asleep more out of exhaustion than desire, but that was fine. John was there with him, he could relax for a moment.  
They never wondered if Mycroft ever went to sleep with that feeling of peacefulness they both experienced. There was no surprise in that, since they didn’t seem keen to talk about it even between themselves.

  
  
Mycroft may not have experienced some things in first person, but he’s not blind.

  
He sees and observes the reality around him even too much, as far as what he cares about. He can’t help it, so he obviously goes out very little.  
But you have to be blind to overlook such a thing like the relationship between Dr John Watson and the first, and only, Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes.  
He must say, for the sake of honesty, he hadn't realized how far things had gone until his brother “came back” from the dead.  
It wasn’t only the clingy way Sherlock looked for John, hoped and believed he would be there for him.  
Sure, he hated to break the news to him, but it was obvious that the doctor had moved on with his life. And still Sherlock didn’t drop it, didn’t hide away in his darkest place. No, he tried and tried and tried until it was clear that he was only making it worse.  
Sherlock became all the things John needed from him. A friend, a help with the wedding, the saving hero in the shining armour, he would have been anything.  
He was already sure he'd have to pick up his brother's pieces sooner rather than later, then Mugnussen happened and he was sure he'd be right.  
And that, surprisingly enough, wasn't even the worst thing.  
His brother, all focused in his new state of remembering to have feelings and how much it hurt, didn’t noticed the most obvious thing. The one just under his nose.  
That was the thing that convinced Mycroft that no, he really didn’t need to go out and look for some goldfish. He didn’t need to become an idiot like his brother, thank you very much.  
Because his so-called genius brother didn’t realize at all that his feelings weren’t one sided. At all.  
John Watson had fallen for Sherlock years ago, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself.  
John had fallen for him when he'd found the kettle replaced after the previous one had become a victim of some experiment.  
He'd fallen when Sherlock had made it clear he couldn’t care less about the Solar System or about who was the prime minister, but remembered his second name.  
He'd fallen when he'd decided it'd be okay with him to die in that pool.  
And again and again and again until Sherlock had fallen too, but not in the way he'd imagined he would.  
So yes, Mycroft may not be aware of some situations, some things in their lives.  
But he’s absolutely sure that when they’re gonna see things as they are, they’re gonna agree with him when he calls them idiots.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if it's clear, but yes, they WILL figure it out and they'll be happy forever. And Mycroft will continue to know things. Thank you for reading <3


End file.
